"So who’s that over there, looks like he’s passed out?" Dale tried his hardest to be observant as Jack gave him the tour of the docks on his first day at work.
"That’s Mr. Meers. Good to point him out. You are never, ever, ever to disturb him if he’s on the property. Even if he’s sleeping on the flagship, or if he yells at you, or throws your broom into the water, you are never, ever, ever to cross him. Do you understand?”
Dale shrunk and gave a nervous nod.
"That man pays your wage, boy."

"So who’s that over there, looks like he’s passed out?" Dale tried his hardest to be observant as Jack gave him the tour of the docks on his first day at work.

"That’s Mr. Meers. Good to point him out. You are never, ever, ever to disturb him if he’s on the property. Even if he’s sleeping on the flagship, or if he yells at you, or throws your broom into the water, you are never, ever, ever to cross him. Do you understand?”

Dale shrunk and gave a nervous nod.

"That man pays your wage, boy."

Bree walked away from the marina fully deflated and exhausted. What did I think would happen? She had suspected for months now that Frank was cheating on her, but some desperate, pitiable voice inside her kept insisting that it might not be true. But between awkwardly gazing at the floor and the disconnected attempts at conversation, Frank really hadn’t even been trying to hide it. Nevertheless, Bree kept on as normal, unwilling to acknowledge the reality of the situation.
It wasn’t until that Friday that the desire for truth and closure swelled up inside her enough to burst. Her entire body buzzed from adrenaline as she approached their boat. Each step closer to the Catalina’s portholes made her legs weaken more, and by the time she could see inside, she was nearly ready to vomit. Just then, she spied them through the glass: Frank, locked in an impassioned embrace—one she hadn’t seen in years—with Annabelle. That French libertine bitch! Her hands all over him, his eyes scanning her lustily, all of it drained her soul completely as she went cold throughout. Unable to muster a confrontation or even a tear or whimper, Bree simply turned around quietly and walked away.

Bree walked away from the marina fully deflated and exhausted. What did I think would happen? She had suspected for months now that Frank was cheating on her, but some desperate, pitiable voice inside her kept insisting that it might not be true. But between awkwardly gazing at the floor and the disconnected attempts at conversation, Frank really hadn’t even been trying to hide it. Nevertheless, Bree kept on as normal, unwilling to acknowledge the reality of the situation.

It wasn’t until that Friday that the desire for truth and closure swelled up inside her enough to burst. Her entire body buzzed from adrenaline as she approached their boat. Each step closer to the Catalina’s portholes made her legs weaken more, and by the time she could see inside, she was nearly ready to vomit. Just then, she spied them through the glass: Frank, locked in an impassioned embrace—one she hadn’t seen in years—with Annabelle. That French libertine bitch! Her hands all over him, his eyes scanning her lustily, all of it drained her soul completely as she went cold throughout. Unable to muster a confrontation or even a tear or whimper, Bree simply turned around quietly and walked away.

Kyle’s mind was racing, and the adrenaline was pushing him along faster than his body, frail and weakened from eleven days stowed-away, could take him. He had started poking around at the first mention from the crew of Antwerp, but in his haste and delirium, he played his stealth a bit too clumsily, and had outed his presence by shuffling about in plain day.
Where could he run? The cargo ship was sizable, but without land to flee to, he was beyond capture for only moments at best. As he darted off of the container he had called home for almost two weeks, he tried to catch a glimpse of land in his periphery, but he saw only hopeless blue seas. His legs flopped down on the weather deck of the Eugen Mærsk and the pain brought him back to when this all started, redoubling his determination. I can’t let them send me back now. I’m not going back to New Jersey. I won’t live under my parents’ stupid, fascist rule any longer!

Kyle’s mind was racing, and the adrenaline was pushing him along faster than his body, frail and weakened from eleven days stowed-away, could take him. He had started poking around at the first mention from the crew of Antwerp, but in his haste and delirium, he played his stealth a bit too clumsily, and had outed his presence by shuffling about in plain day.

Where could he run? The cargo ship was sizable, but without land to flee to, he was beyond capture for only moments at best. As he darted off of the container he had called home for almost two weeks, he tried to catch a glimpse of land in his periphery, but he saw only hopeless blue seas. His legs flopped down on the weather deck of the Eugen Mærsk and the pain brought him back to when this all started, redoubling his determination. I can’t let them send me back now. I’m not going back to New Jersey. I won’t live under my parents’ stupid, fascist rule any longer!

Phillip moaned as the fever ravaged him from the inside out. The seas were already enough of a burden without being sick, but in the throes of this virus he was suffering greatly at the hands of an otherwise mild tide. “I d-don’t damn need a-anyone,” he choked, shivering. That was the point of the boat after all, to get away from dreaded other people. But secretly, what he wouldn’t give to be nursed back to life by any of the people he distanced himself from over the past ten years. But, four miles off shore and incapacitated by his violent illness, he was as good as wasting away in another universe.

Phillip moaned as the fever ravaged him from the inside out. The seas were already enough of a burden without being sick, but in the throes of this virus he was suffering greatly at the hands of an otherwise mild tide. “I d-don’t damn need a-anyone,” he choked, shivering. That was the point of the boat after all, to get away from dreaded other people. But secretly, what he wouldn’t give to be nursed back to life by any of the people he distanced himself from over the past ten years. But, four miles off shore and incapacitated by his violent illness, he was as good as wasting away in another universe.

"Probably gonna have to sell this thing," said Randy. "Tide’s just a bit too rough on land for it to make sense. You know, financially." Blubbins continued scrubbing his own boat intently as Randy bleated on in his usual uninspiring tone. "I blame the economy. You just can’t sell paper anymore. I don’t get it, Blubbins."
Blubbins skipped a beat of scrubbing to silently acknowledge Randy’s imperceptive dullness, then huffed even harder as he resumed scrubbing. “And don’t even get me started about Oba-meow-care,” Randy continued. “I cut everyone back to 19 hours. Even m’self.”

"Probably gonna have to sell this thing," said Randy. "Tide’s just a bit too rough on land for it to make sense. You know, financially." Blubbins continued scrubbing his own boat intently as Randy bleated on in his usual uninspiring tone. "I blame the economy. You just can’t sell paper anymore. I don’t get it, Blubbins."

Blubbins skipped a beat of scrubbing to silently acknowledge Randy’s imperceptive dullness, then huffed even harder as he resumed scrubbing. “And don’t even get me started about Oba-meow-care,” Randy continued. “I cut everyone back to 19 hours. Even m’self.”

What now? wondered Joseph. His plan was now fully realized. He had stripped his worldly possessions down to what could fit on his back. All of his money was put aside to be used only in emergencies. And after months of hand-wringing, his divorce from Francine’s toxic aura was complete.
Now across the Atlantic, he sat waiting for some fateful spark to reignite his life. But nothing happened. All he felt was a widening sense of how empty and open his life was now. He had become a whitewashed canvas. He reflexively pined to paint over that stark existence with distraction. But he knew he had found for himself a coveted life, a still life, one worth fighting to keep.

What now? wondered Joseph. His plan was now fully realized. He had stripped his worldly possessions down to what could fit on his back. All of his money was put aside to be used only in emergencies. And after months of hand-wringing, his divorce from Francine’s toxic aura was complete.

Now across the Atlantic, he sat waiting for some fateful spark to reignite his life. But nothing happened. All he felt was a widening sense of how empty and open his life was now. He had become a whitewashed canvas. He reflexively pined to paint over that stark existence with distraction. But he knew he had found for himself a coveted life, a still life, one worth fighting to keep.

Fritz kept his detached stare plastered on his face as his father’s rage rolled on undeterred. “What would the Chancellor’s office say? They’d say Oh Karl, we cannot take your son for an internship, we don’t employ thieves! That’s what they’d say! You jeopardize my very reputation with the whole Bundestag when you do reckless things like this! And what will we say to the city? That Karl Huber’s own son is a criminal?”
Fritz stayed close to his nonchalance. The blaring ire of his father burned hot like the sun, but stepping out of Karl’s shadow was the only way Fritz would ever make a name for himself. Let him yell, Fritz thought, digging into his seat on the stolen boat. That means I’m winning.

Fritz kept his detached stare plastered on his face as his father’s rage rolled on undeterred. “What would the Chancellor’s office say? They’d say Oh Karl, we cannot take your son for an internship, we don’t employ thieves! That’s what they’d say! You jeopardize my very reputation with the whole Bundestag when you do reckless things like this! And what will we say to the city? That Karl Huber’s own son is a criminal?”

Fritz stayed close to his nonchalance. The blaring ire of his father burned hot like the sun, but stepping out of Karl’s shadow was the only way Fritz would ever make a name for himself. Let him yell, Fritz thought, digging into his seat on the stolen boat. That means I’m winning.

Anonymous asked:

You're back! I missed you :'(

Ah yes, I missed me as well. I departed the M/Y Fresh Step for the winter, and I was so overcome with grief that I took a long, intertwining series of naps within naps that would have made Christopher Nolan jealous!

Some of the most distinguished, haughty, and wealthy seafaring cats have written in with their tales of life on a boat, and I’ll relay their tales… as soon as I sleep off this last nap!

Until next time, I remain your… *yawn*

Fondly,
Admiral Snugglepaws

The first trip down to the dock was always the most cumbersome for French Fry, even though it was never the trip he took to put the boat in. It was the undone habit, the inertia of his very soul to overcome, that was the toughest part. But he had to take that trip as soon as the weather was kind enough.
Though dreary, the joyously mild reprieve from February’s cruel grasp pulled him away from the office for just long enough to smell the docks for the first time in the new year. And true to form, he had stopped at Felton’s for a pack of AA batteries and a turkey sandwich. He sat at the dock for twenty two minutes, eating the sandwich and listening to Michael McDonald on the Walkman, resurrected once again to pull him through another year of sailing.
He didn’t realize how cold he had become in just his windbreaker until walking back to his car. But his shivering was not just from cold; he could feel the dread in his spine from the yet-persistent winter. If I can just make it to April, he anguished.

The first trip down to the dock was always the most cumbersome for French Fry, even though it was never the trip he took to put the boat in. It was the undone habit, the inertia of his very soul to overcome, that was the toughest part. But he had to take that trip as soon as the weather was kind enough.

Though dreary, the joyously mild reprieve from February’s cruel grasp pulled him away from the office for just long enough to smell the docks for the first time in the new year. And true to form, he had stopped at Felton’s for a pack of AA batteries and a turkey sandwich. He sat at the dock for twenty two minutes, eating the sandwich and listening to Michael McDonald on the Walkman, resurrected once again to pull him through another year of sailing.

He didn’t realize how cold he had become in just his windbreaker until walking back to his car. But his shivering was not just from cold; he could feel the dread in his spine from the yet-persistent winter. If I can just make it to April, he anguished.

Chantel yawned as that familiar dusk chill crawled down her body. She was beginning to feel restless on the forty-foot sloop, craving the inflated chaos that accompanied her illustrious executive career in Silicon Valley. There was nothing of the sort in an Orange County marina, and by her seventh week on the Angel II, the lack of intensity began to dull her passion for life.
She pined for the days as COO of Sociald, that startup that—ah—what did they even do again? She remembered not, as most days were spent in the throes of a bender, at the behest of their 18 year-old founder. Or ActivizeMe, where for three months she was the VP of Revenue. What does a VP of Revenue even do, she wondered. Between private jetting to venture capitalists’ offices and giving keynotes at C-list conferences, she couldn’t quite remember. Or what about ShopProQuo, that was five months she’d never forget—but now she could barely recall where the office had been. Maybe it was in Jason’s apartment? Her ex did have a large industrial loft with desks, after all.
She ruminated on those years fondly. Taken as a whole, they seemed much more tolerable and enticing, a stark contrast to their true nature as a nauseating dance between hungover and bankrupt. But for all the turmoil, her pockets came out of the Valley lined with pilfered seed money, and a résumé longer than her boat’s mainsail.

Chantel yawned as that familiar dusk chill crawled down her body. She was beginning to feel restless on the forty-foot sloop, craving the inflated chaos that accompanied her illustrious executive career in Silicon Valley. There was nothing of the sort in an Orange County marina, and by her seventh week on the Angel II, the lack of intensity began to dull her passion for life.

She pined for the days as COO of Sociald, that startup that—ahwhat did they even do again? She remembered not, as most days were spent in the throes of a bender, at the behest of their 18 year-old founder. Or ActivizeMe, where for three months she was the VP of Revenue. What does a VP of Revenue even do, she wondered. Between private jetting to venture capitalists’ offices and giving keynotes at C-list conferences, she couldn’t quite remember. Or what about ShopProQuo, that was five months she’d never forget—but now she could barely recall where the office had been. Maybe it was in Jason’s apartment? Her ex did have a large industrial loft with desks, after all.

She ruminated on those years fondly. Taken as a whole, they seemed much more tolerable and enticing, a stark contrast to their true nature as a nauseating dance between hungover and bankrupt. But for all the turmoil, her pockets came out of the Valley lined with pilfered seed money, and a résumé longer than her boat’s mainsail.